Cæsar.
He calls me boy; and chides, as he had power
To beat me out of Ægypt. My messenger
He hath whipt with rods, dares me to personal combat,
Cæsar to Antony. Let the old ruffian know,
^{1 note}

Mec.
Cæsar must think,
When one so great begins to rage, he's hunted

Even to falling. Give him no breath, but now
^noteMake boot of his distraction: never anger
Made good guard for itself.

Cæs.
Let our best heads
Know, that to-morrow the last of many battles
We mean to fight. Within our files there are
Of those that serv'd Mark Antony but late,
Enough to fetch him in. See, it be done;
And feast the army; we have store to do't,
And they have earn'd the waste. Poor Antony! [Exeunt.

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